


would the sun know itself?

by shadowquill17



Series: you are what gleams [2]
Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Devotion, M/M, POV Simon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28028292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowquill17/pseuds/shadowquill17
Summary: "He takes off his contacts, face hidden as he bends his head to free his eyes; his hands search, find, and you see him tense briefly before his long fingers retreat. When he straightens back up, contacts discarded to the floor, his eyelids are closed, and you’re holding your breath. His eyelashes flutter and bat, once, twice, before he faces himself. He looks straight into his reflection, too pale irises and burst pupils, and you feel minuscule in front of his pride, in front of his courage that has already stopped blinking."Simon has just learned that Kieren is the First Risen. He can't look away.
Relationships: Simon Monroe/Kieren Walker
Series: you are what gleams [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2040154
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	would the sun know itself?

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the second part! Basically an exploration of Simon silently freaking out as he can feel his whole world shift to revolve around Kieren.

He walks in long steps at your side, carried by a righteous and burning indignation, and you follow him, careful not to fall behind, slightly stunned by the revelations that still echo in your head.

You can’t help but imagine him, crawling out of his grave, fingers numb and covered in dirt, his grey face turned to the rain, to the sky. If only you could have been there, you think, desperately. You would have offered your hand, you would have held him against your chest, you would have put your nose in his hair and said _it’s alright, it’ll be alright._

He doesn’t talk. The sound of your heels is sharp against the wet asphalt of the deserted road, and you risk a glance in his direction… he’s looking straight ahead, jaw tight and hard, and you’ve never seen him more determined.

More adult.

He enters your home like it’s his, and for a second you let yourself imagine a future where it is, where you wake up in the morning arms full of his sleep-soft body, nestled against you, long sandy lashes delicate on his white, calm cheek…

He doesn’t bother taking off his coat, crossing rooms and hallways on his long, swaying legs, and his presence does something to the impersonal space of the house, makes it swell and tremble and _live_.

Uncertain, you follow him to your room, where he sits down on the only available seat, in front of the mirror… oh.

You go still in the doorway. There’s an indescribable feeling rushing through you, twisting your stomach, and you know that what’s about to happen is important, essential.

You say nothing.

He takes off his contacts, face hidden as he bends his head to free his eyes; his hands search, find, and you see him tense briefly before his long fingers retreat. When he straightens back up, contacts discarded to the floor, his eyelids are closed, and you’re holding your breath. His eyelashes flutter and bat, once, twice, before he faces himself. He looks straight into his reflection, too pale irises and burst pupils, and you feel minuscule in front of his pride, in front of his courage that has already stopped blinking.

He takes a make-up wipe out of his pocket, guides it down his cheek, and a long strip of skin appears, white and livid and _perfect_ … you’re enthralled by the hold of his fingers on the black fabric, bewitched by the curve of his hand.

Suddenly he seems to remember that you’re here, still in the doorway. His eyes turn to you, newly unveiled and shockingly clear, and your head empties completely, thoughts and admiration thoroughly lost in the fierce, milky brightness of his gaze.

He stands, comes closer. You can feel his attention focusing on you, solemn, electric, and you’re born again under his careful eyes. His hand lifts to your cheek, and you feel vaguely, distantly, the caress of the make-up wipe.

His gesture is impossibly gentle, soft on your face and softer on your heart, and his gaze (clear, _sure_ ) is hooked into yours. You tilt your head when he wipes the fabric over your forehead; you don't look away, you can't look away, and you can see them in his eyes, righteous and true and fragile, the determination and the strength and the infinite courage…

Your lungs are too empty, too full, and your chest is on fire… and when he kisses you, tender and firm and certain, you know that there’s nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , that you wouldn’t do for Kieren Walker.

**Author's Note:**

> I still have another part in this series, a bit longer, that explores the moment Simon finally makes his choice.


End file.
